


Letters of Memory & Love

by awanderingmuse



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awanderingmuse/pseuds/awanderingmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letters are the best way to keep in touch. Bran and Will have been tongue-tied pen-pals for ages. Now Bran has two very important things to tell Will. If only the Pendragon remembered his courage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Should and Shouldn't

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Dark is Rising Sequence. All familiar characters, world features, and plot devices belong to Susan Cooper.
> 
> Also posted on ff.net and LiveJournal [here](http://awanderingmuse.livejournal.com/1077.html)

The abnormally pale adolescent could be seen staring at nothing, clutching a cream colored envelope in his hand. He was lost in the memory of dream. Not an unusual practice for Bran. He often dreamt of things he shouldn't. At least, his very conservative father would not approve of the subjects of his dreams. "Boys and magic," the pious shepherd would lecture "Are things best not thought about."

But it wasn't boys and magic, it was a particular boy and his magic. Despite the disproval he knew he'd receive, Bran couldn't help dreaming about magic or Will. His dreams often revolved around going on grand adventures with Will. Though as he matured, the friendship he had with Dream Will developed into something else altogether.

A year ago those dreams changed to the point of catastrophe. They twisted through a gallery of lost memories that concluded at the very beginning. Not the beginning of his adventures with Will or even the beginning of Bran's life. The gallery ended at The Beginning, the convergence of High Magic itself. It was there, at The Beginning, that he had found his memories and more importantly his true self, his purpose. When he awoke he still remembered and everything changed.

Shaking himself of the memory, Bran glanced at the creased envelope. Then he stuffed it into his pocket and squinted up at the graying sky. Even with the clouds it was still a bit bright for his sensitive eyes. The threat of rain made him continue on his way at a quickened pace. Hopefully he managed to get home before it started. At that moment he wanted, more than anything, to sit down on his mountain and read the letter. But, with impending rain, it just had to wait till he got inside. He sent out a hopeful thought that the rain would, in fact, wait till then.

He pulled the letter out again to look at it. It was rare for him to get a letter from his Dewin, and rarer for Bran to respond. It wasn't that he was angry with Will, not anymore. He had long since forgiven him for letting him forget. Bran had chosen that path for himself after all. And it didn't really matter, now that he remembered. Did it?

No. Bran's silence had nothing to do with anger. He just didn't know what he was supposed to say. Should he to pretend he still didn't remember, or go ahead and let Will know?

He was frightened by both options, not that he wouldn't have to tell Will sometime. But, procrastinating on important things didn't seem as awful when both people had forever.

Besides, a malicious part of his mind nagged, the Old Ones knew the rules of High Magic. Surely, Bran's Dewin knew that Merriman had only delayed the inevitable by taking his memory. If that were the case, it was obvious that the Old One simply did not care. It explained why Will never said anything in his letters. Why he wrote a whole lot about absolutely nothing, why Will was shutting him out. The sensible part of Bran rejected the idea. Will had to care, because, well, he had to.

The return of his title as Pendragon was not the only reason Bran found writing Will awkward. He had other things he wanted, no, needed to confess. There were other vital thoughts and feelings that clamored to be written every time he put his pen to paper. There were unspoken, tender words that had to be said.

A clap of thunder, that he may have caused while so deeply absorbed, broke his thoughts. It was probably for the best. He had a tendency to over think things. He looked up and determined that it was going to rain sooner rather than later. So much for hopeful thoughts, he silently groused. For the thousandth time he wished he could speak to Will. If he could, they might figure out how he was supposed to control his magic.

Bran looked up again; he really didn't want to be caught in the rain. With a heavy sigh, and a tug on his book bags straps he quickened his pace yet again. Moving faster, until he was nearly running down the mountain side. He couldn't think about the things he needed to, and wouldn't, tell Will this way.

Any remaining thoughts of Will were temporarily jolted from his mind when he tripped over a fallen fence post. He cursed under his breath. Then moved the vexing piece of wood out of the way, making a mental note to fix that section of fencing. Later would have to be soon enough, when it was not about to rain.

Then he continued his haphazard trek down the mountain side. Now his mind filled with thoughts of fallen fence posts and other farm related chores. Even thoughts of chores escaped him as he all but flew down his mountain. As he ran, concentrating on where his feet landed and trying to keep his body from being flung down the slopes became all that mattered.

He was just a boy not the legitimate son of King Arthur, born to another time, left here by his mother, Gwenhwyfar. He was not missing a certain Old One far more than he should, and worrying over should and should not's concerning him. There were no farm chores, homework assignments, or other life worries. He wasn't an abnormally pale, tawny eyed freak. He was just a pair of feet guiding a pair of hard working legs down a steep mountain, with arms furiously pumping to maintain balance. Bran reveled in the freedom.

All too soon and not nearly soon enough he found himself at his door. It was locked, which meant that his Da hadn't come home yet. He unlocked the door and slipped inside, just as the first rain drops started to fall. He dropped his book bag on the floor, removed his jacket, and kicked off his shoes. Then he went into the kitchen to make tea. With his head cleared, reading Will's letter seemed slightly less urgent.

On the kitchen table there was a note from Owen saying he had gone to town. Bran left it where it was and filled the kettle with water before setting it to boil. He got out the tea, and then finally sat down to read the letter.

It was simplistic and to the point, but that was Will. There was a short salutation in which Will asked after Bran. Followed by a brief description of his recent activities and further inquiry as to how Bran was. He couldn't help but smile at that. Long ago he had rationalized that Will's concern for his wellbeing had more to do with not knowing how to talk a memory-less Pendragon than actual concern. This offended Bran a little. Why did it matter if Bran remembered or not? It didn't keep them from being friends. Other times, Bran felt that Will truly worried nearly as much as his letters implied. The letter ended with an odd comment regarding summer break, and then it closed with the standard words "Your Friend".

He read the letter again and decided that he would mention that the younger Stanton's would be left alone for part of the summer to Jen Evans. The only rational response to such news was to invite them over for the holidays. It would be nice to see Will again. Maybe he'd have a bit more courage if he spoke to him face to face. Maybe he'd finally have the courage to say all the things that needed to be said. Maybe they could both stop being alone.

The tea kettle started to boil and Bran set Will's letter down long enough to make his tea. Then he took a sheet of paper from his book bag along with a pen. He arranged his items and sat down at the kitchen table, prepared to compose his response.

He put his pen to the paper thinking he should start with "Dear Will", but that seemed dull. His composition teacher had been going on and on about how nothing should begin dully. Sighing he skipped a line and penned the body first.

He put in a tired but useful greeting asking how Will was. Wrote of mundane farm life, and even made an absurd joke about sheep. Then he commented on Will's narrative of life in Buckinghamshire, asking how someone as well acquainted with history as Will could possibly tolerate such a basic class. It was a hint alluding to the fact Bran had remembered, but an insignificant one. Almost anyone who knew Will knew he was an expert when it came to history and languages.

Then his pen paused. Bran thought about taking the hint and making it a blatant statement. He seriously considered telling Will he remembered, asking him to come back to him. He wanted so badly to tell the truth and write tabooed words. To write of things they had done as children and maybe even say what he truly felt. The Pendragon needed his Dewin to know he was back. Bran needed Will to know how badly he missed him.

But what if the Old One stood by the Light's decision? What if he made him forget again? What if Will really didn't care for him? His pen stayed poised above the paper, his mind undecided. He took a deep breath preparing to take a step, even though such a step would probably lead him off a cliff.

He asked after Will's family. He asked which of his siblings would be left alone for the summer, and if Will had heard anything from his oldest brother. Stephen wasn't it? Bran vaguely remembered Will saying something about fighting with him over his true identity. He told Will about a book he had read recently, one he thought Will would find interesting. He even asked after the family's dogs, hoping his heart's messages would come across in his attention to detail. He said all these things, and absolutely nothing. Dancing around the sentences he longed to write. The page screamed "I remember", while every word he wrote spelled itself, L-O-V-E.

As Bran wrote he was distracted by thoughts of what Will was like now. Did his hair still fall into his eyes? Was he still stocky, or had he grown tall? Did he still sing? Were his eyes still that wonderfully expressive shade of blue-grey? Bran shook his head and turned back to his response. He needed to pay attention, besides it was highly unlikely that Will would be interested in Bran.

His pen etched a few more sentences, while his mind and heart fought over should and shouldn't. He penned the last word. Finally he had written all he needed to say. All he needed to say and nowhere near all he wished he could. The only things left were the closing and the salutation. He refused to re-read it, even for the purpose of editing. He refused to read the perfectly true lies he had crafted.

He put the pen at the bottom of the page, fully intending to write the words "your friend". Instead the pen wrote "Your Devoted Prince". At the top he wrote "Dear Dewin".

Then without allowing himself a second thought Bran folded his reply. The letter went into an envelope, and the envelope was properly labeled. Then he put the letter where he and his Da put all of their outgoing mail and went back to the kitchen to start his homework. Later, he thought with a smile, he would go tell Jen Evans about how a few of the Stanton's would be alone for part of the summer.


	2. Caught in Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters are the best way to keep in touch. Bran and Will have been tongue-tied pen-pals for ages. Now Bran has two very important things to tell Will. If only the Pendragon remembered his courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Dark is Rising Sequence. All familiar characters, world features, and plot devices belong to Susan Cooper. Nor am I Dante Aligheri.
> 
> Also posted on ff.net and LiveJournal [here](http://awanderingmuse.livejournal.com/1435.html)

The cool glass vainly tried to smooth the Old Ones creased brow. Will was leaning against his bedroom window with Dante’s Inferno in his hands. He didn’t read; he stared. A cool wind played in the branches of the budding trees and he couldn’t help but smile. For once the world was at peace, the Light’s purpose had succeeded, and Will was content, in a way.

He took a breath, and let it out slowly. Trying to forestall the onslaught of anxieties such thoughts normally brought. He needn’t, and probably shouldn’t, think about an eternity spent alone. But, he did. He thought of losing everyone he knew, and everyone he ever met. He thought of how it didn’t have to be that way. He thought about how it was. And about how he, the last powerful servant of the Light, was powerless to change it.

Restraining his roiling emotions, he looked down at the road. James was walking back from a study group, surrounded by friends, with a pretty girl at his side. His brother smiled at something the girl said and reached out to hold her hand. She looked at him through her eyelashes and James’s smile grew. They walked past the house, and Will. The sight only validated his musings on an eternity spent alone.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Ignoring his thoughts, he directed his mind to a place between Time, if only for a second. It was calm there. A place he could regain his composure, and put on the façade of a normal sixteen year old.

He opened his eyes to see the devil staring at him from his books cover. He was currently in the second circle. Hell for the lustful, where sinners were blown about by the wind. 

Will didn’t understand why lust was a sin. It was part of human nature. A younger Will would have nodded his head and agreed with the clergy’s dogma. Now he felt a bit more like he thought Dante did. Lust could be a sin, when it hurt others. Tawny eyes and the palest skin flashed across his memory.

He looked away from the book and redirected his mind to a Canto that had intrigued him. It was the third Canto, which took place at the Gate of Hell. It was a hellish place for those who were indifferent to the battle between Heaven and Hell. Their sentence was to spend eternity chasing an emblem-less banner. For some reason, he could identify with those locked in this level and he didn’t understand why. It’s not like he was guilty of indifference when it came to the Light and Dark. Maybe it was because he felt purposeless these days. Sure he was Watchman for the Light. Will just wasn’t sure what that meant any more.

From downstairs he could hear the phone ringing. He waited. A second later he could hear Mary scream “I’ll get it!” to the nearly empty house. The corner of his mouth twitched at Mary making sure everyone knew she was answering the phone. He never answered phone calls.

“Mum, its Aunt Jen!” Mary shouted shrilly. He faintly heard their mother’s much more subdued reply and a small smile ghosted across his lips at Mary’s boisterous tendencies. While his Mother talked he went back to reading about star crossed lovers, doomed to Hell for all eternity. 

A short while later he heard the sound of someone walking up the path. He glanced away from his book to see the mail man walking away from their house. Without considering why, he all but threw his book onto the floor and ran through his door and down the many steps between him and the mail. As he tore through the kitchen his mother, who was still on the phone, told him to be careful. Her voice sounded like an echo to his ears. 

His enthusiasm to get the mail was for two reasons. He was expecting a letter from Stephen, who he had finally forgiven for reacting badly to finding out he was an Old One. Mainly because Stephen didn’t remember the incident and because he had been very supportive when Will confessed that he was attracted to men. The other and probably focal reason for his sudden desire to get the mail was because he might have gotten a response from Bran.

It didn’t make sense that he was so eager to get a letter from Bran. The letters he received always felt hollow, as if Bran wasn’t saying something. He also found it difficult to reply. He never knew what to say. It was too risky to write about shared memories, and he didn’t want to tell Bran too much about his own life. Least he cause Bran to worry about how few friends he had. His mind instantly protested that he had several acquaintances and he did occasionally see the Drews, as if he were actually having a conversation with Bran.

Really, he just did not know how to express himself in any other way than to ask how Bran was in a million different ways. Still he hoped Bran chose to respond. It was important for the Old One to know that his Pendragon was okay. Though, he was not willing to admit why.

He got to the box, took out the mail, and flipped through it. There was an assortment of bills, even more junk mail, and a post card from Gwen. He continued flipping. There, a letter with a Welsh postal code. He took Bran’s reply from the stack, and went inside. Quickly he handed the rest of the mail to his mother, who had a brief moment of uncertainly juggling it and the phone, and ran back up the stairs to his room.

Halfway up the stairs he ripped open the envelope. His pace slowed from an outright run to a snail like crawl as he concentrated on unfolding the letter. When he read the salutation, he stopped moving altogether. The second word was Dewin, what Bran used to call him when they were twelve and Bran was still the Pendragon. Sitting on one of the top steps to the attic, he read on. The rest of the letter was completely normal. Bran told him about the farm and asked him about his family’s holiday plans. He was suspiciously interested in which of Wills siblings would be left at home with him. Then Bran told him about a book he had read for class, thinking Will might like it.

The letter still felt like Bran was keeping secrets, but overall it was perfectly normal. That is until he got to the closing which read, your devoted prince. For a few moments Will’s mind sang. For a few seconds he believed that Bran remembered. For an instant he thought Bran might return his unacknowledged feelings. Then he vaguely remembered Bran joking about how they used to play prince and wizard when he went back to Wales one summer. Bran had teased Will that he had always ended up saving Will in their imaginings. Will’s small hope burst like a bubble. With slumped shoulders he stood and finished his trip up the stairs. He laid Bran’s reply on the desk, putting the letter out of mind. A familiar sinking feeling was in his stomach.

His mother called to Mary and him from down stairs. Will’s feet dragged down the steps as he returned to the kitchen. She smiled at them and he smiled back, sort of. “Well, I just finished talking to Aunt Jen.” Their mother said, as if trying to build anticipation. “And you two and James have been invited to Wales for the summer.”

There was a mini explosion of joy from Mary at this news. Followed quickly by talk about what she should wear, and who all would be there, and how fantastic the holidays would be. Will tried to match her enthusiasm, but could not. This was because, first of all, no one could match Mary in enthusiasm, and because Will simply was not that excited. Sure it would be nice to see everyone again, but it wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be anything like it had been, like what he wanted the trip to be. Could it?


	3. Seeking Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters are the best way to keep in touch. Bran and Will have been toung-tied pen-pals for ages. Now Bran has two very important things to tell Will. If only the Pendragon remembered his courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own The Dark is Rising Sequence. All recognizable characters, world features, and plot devices belong to Susan Cooper.
> 
> Also posted on ff.net and LiveJournal [here](http://awanderingmuse.livejournal.com/1729.html)

Blushing scarlet clouds hung above angling Welsh mountains. The sun’s edge peeked over the horizon, shading the sky a noble purple that was almost blue. Will’s breath puffed out in little clouds of fog as he trudged up the mountain. 

It was blasphemously early. At home he’d still be soundly asleep. Unfortunately, he had woken to the smell of cooking eggs, and a feeling that he needed to leave the house. He had followed that feeling out of the house and up the mountain, waving off Aunt Jens offer for coffee as he left through the kitchen and mumbling something about taking a walk.

As he continued walking, he saw someone he had been putting off meeting on the slopes above. Standing in the soft early morning light was a living alabaster sculpture. He appeared to be fixing a fallen section of fence. His customary black clothing was worn to contrast his pale skin just as it always had been. As Will got closer he realized what had brought him out of bed. This close the Old One could feel High Magic in the air and it confused him.

Just then, Bran turned and grinned at him. His sunglasses obscuring his arrogantly featured face. “I wondered when I would see you, Sais Bach.”

He finished making his way up the slope before responding, artfully ignoring the jibe with a half-lie. “I figured we’d see you at dinner.” It was a half-lie because he hadn’t figured he would see Bran, he had irrationally feared it. “I mean, don’t your father and you always have dinner at Aunt Jens on weekends? It was Sunday after all.”

Bran laughed good-naturedly and gestured for Will to help with the farm chores. Will sighed and did so with minimal complaint. They worked mostly in silence, only communicating about the task at hand.

“We do normally go over on weekends,” Bran said when they were finished; answering the question as if no time had passed. “But Da wouldn’t hear of it with you three here. He said something about not interrupting family gatherings.” The albino boy gave a mystified shrug. “How was dinner, by the way? I was not happy to miss out on Jen Evans cooking.”

“Great!” Will exclaimed trying to put sincerity into the word. And truly dinner had been wonderful. He just wasn’t feeling all that animated because this conversation felt so wrong. It was hollow, just like their letters. The hollow feeling seemed worse because they were speaking face to face.

Bran smiled. It was a tight smile that did nothing to lighten his concealed features. Will wondered if he could sense the emptiness as well. “Then I will have to convince Da that we should go to dinner tonight.”

There was another extended silence. This one was much more awkward than the first, because they had nothing to distract them from the strain within. It was almost palatable, a thing living in the air. At least that’s how it seemed to Will, who was still concentrating on the now tense sense of High Magic. Where was it coming from? Will’s intuition said it was Bran, but that was impossible. He had given all that up.

Finally Will said, “So, why are you mending fences this early?”

Bran harrumphed rather loudly, “I remembered that I needed to fix it late last night. The post nearly killed me a few weeks ago, when I was coming home from school.” He shrugged, shifting his angular form with a dancer’s grace. I decided I had better do it this morning, before all the real work starts.” He looked at Will significantly, probably remembering more farm chores than actually occurred during Will’s previous visits to Wales.

“I see, I guess you’d be headed back home then, since you’ve fixed it?” As glad as Will was to see Bran, to see with his own eyes that Bran was well, he wanted to get away. The conversation was awkward and strained, Will didn’t like it. It was too forceful of a reminder of all that Bran had lost. Somehow, it was a reminder of what Will could never have. The Old One also needed time to think. Time to figure out how exactly Bran was working High Magic, if he was doing it.

“Na, Boyo. I was going to go up the mountain to watch the sunrise.” Bran regarded him inquiringly, lowering his sunglasses to see him better. Will tried not to look, least he get lost in the golden depth of Bran’s eyes. “Do you want to come with me? It is a pleasant sight, and one I do not recall you seeing before.”

Will nodded, unsure of why he assented to it, and followed Bran up the slopes. It didn’t take very long for Will to realize that they were headed to the place where they had first met, when he was haphazardly searching for Cadfan’s way. 

When they arrived, Bran found the rock an exhausted Will had been forced to rest on so many years ago, and sat down. Will moved to lean against a tree, wanting to watch Bran. Hoping he could ascertain how Bran was working magic.

Bran lowered his glasses again and raised a nearly invisible eyebrow at him. “There’s room for two, you know.” He cut quite a figure sitting on the rock, hands planted behind him for support.

Feeling shy, and absurd for feeling that way, Will went to sit next to Bran. It wasn’t like Bran had meant anything by it. He kept his eyes carefully on the vista, and his mind resolutely off the fact that they were almost touching. 

They sat there staring blindly at the horizon, as red flushed to pink, and purple lifted to blue. The silence grew and the tension rose, like a symphony about to come to a sudden, dissonant end. Then, gradually, the tense edge eased into comfort and both boys relaxed.

“So, how have things been with you?” Bran asked idly. A slight breeze ruffled his snowy hair.

Will leaned back, stretching, and found his arm brushing against Bran’s. Bran didn’t seem to mind so he stayed where he was. The peace of the moment was lulling him out of his typical wary state, and for once he didn’t care. “Fine, I guess.”

The other boy removed his sunglasses and looked at Will critically, easily catching Will’s gaze. Will gazed back at him, suddenly mesmerized by questioning amber eyes.

“You always do that.” Bran murmured.

“Do what?” Will asked hazily. Did Bran know how striking his eyes were?

“Avoid my questions.” Bran leaned forward, intent on the subject. His proximity was keeping Will from remembering what they were talking about. “Why?” Bran was still hunting for a candid answer.

“I” was all Will could manage to say. This close the only things Will could think of, were the fire in Bran’s eyes and the fact that he could almost taste his breath.

“Uh” he bit his bottom lip to halt his stammering. For some reason his body leaned in slightly, almost closing the gap between them. Brans eyes narrowed in apprehension and his lips parted in anticipation. They were mere inches apart. Will was so taken in, that thought suddenly returned in a rush of inane fear. Fear of what was happening between them, and fear of what inevitably would. “I have to go.” Like a coward, he fled. He fled Bran. He fled the past. He fled the futures promise of a life together and it’s oath of death.

A calloused hand on his shoulder stopped him. The hand turned him to face, not those wonderfully peculiar eyes, but tinted black plastic. Bran’s jaw was set, warning Will he was angry with him. However, with the sunglasses back on, Will could not tell how angry he was. “Why?” Bran asked again.

“Why what?” Will really should’ve paid more attention to the conversation. He obviously wasn’t asking why Will had to leave.

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” Bran demanded his tone of voice frustrated, not angry. “You’re the one who started it after all. I mean, you did. You do.” He paused, gathered his courage and tried again. “You were going to kiss me, right? I don’t think you would have tried, unless you, unless you felt something for me.” He finished the last part lamely.

Will was silent for a long time. Eventually he said, “I, was going to. I do. I do, care about you.” Will suddenly saw why Bran had been struggling with words. “But, I can’t, Bran. I just can’t.”

“And why not?” Now Bran was angry.

Will looked away, saying nothing.

“What are you afraid of?”

Again, Will met him with silence.

“What is your problem, Will?” Bran demanded, his accent becoming more pronounced. “Is it me?”

Will refused to answer that question. He refused to say yes.

Bran took his silence as the affirmation it was and let his anger grow. “Is it because you don’t think I’m the way I should be? You can’t be with me now, because I’m not as I was? Because that’s daft. You act like you’re afraid of betraying me by being with me. And you’ve either lost all your sense, or are incredibly stupid, because the very idea is nonsense! It’s just me, nothing else should matter.”

Will started to give an evasive reply, until he realized what Bran had said. Awe struck he muttered, “What do you mean, as you were?”

Bran probably didn’t even hear his shocked question. Instead he advanced on Will until the youngest of the Old found his back against a tree, pinned to it by an enraged Pendragon. It didn’t matter that Bran couldn’t have remembered. It didn’t matter if he was aware of his identity or not. 

At this point the Pendragon was exactly what Bran was, a terribly powerful being of High Magic. The very air was charged with his wrath. “I don’t get you anymore Stanton. But I still love you. And it’s frightening, loving someone you can’t even comprehend. I don’t understand why you’re cutting yourself off from everyone, from me. If our roles were switched… ”

He stopped. A million things Bran would have done were their roles switched flitted across Will’s mind, each one more ludicrous then the last. Will could feel Bran’s eyes searching for something in his own, but could not move to give him an answer. To give him whatever it was he wanted. Will was frozen in place by Brans volatile anger, and his deep-rooted hurt. Suddenly Will found himself released. Bran’s back was turned to him with shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’m not the one who has changed, Dewin.” Will could tell he was being reprimanded, recanted even. Still the nick-name had a soft, sad affection to it. Outwardly Bran was calm as he walked away. Will would have believed it, if it weren’t for the magical charge lingering in the air, and the flash of lightning that arched across the nearly cloudless sky. 

A small part of Will was terrified of the young man who had turned his back to him. It was obvious that Bran was at least somewhat aware of who he was. It was even more evident that he was not fully in tune with his magic, allowing his emotion to arbitrarily shape his will and power. How he’d gained that much, Will did not know. He was well aware that the unpredictability of Bran’s magic made him highly dangerous.

He was not listening to the fear when he reached out and touched Bran. It wasn’t the fear dictating him, when he pulled at Bran’s sleeve and softly said his name. It was the fact that he couldn’t bear to lose Bran to his own folly.

“You’re right.” Will said. “I’m not like I was, I’m not happy. But, I shouldn’t have cut you out of my life because of it. It’s just; I don’t know how to spend my watch alone. Merriman seems to think it’s what I should do, but I don’t know how to do it.” His voice hitched. “I don’t know how to watch the world while slowly losing it, Bran. I don’t want to.”

A finger hitched under Will’s chin, and lifted his downcast eyes up. He found himself looking once again into a pale face with hawk like eyes. “Who say’s you’re alone?” Bran said going against everything Will was thinking.

“I am.”

Bran pulled back a little and snorted, clearly offended, “Good to know I’m not counted as a person, boyo.”

Will shook his head, staring at his feet. “You’ll die. I’ll lose you” He didn’t know how Bran remembered, much less found his magic, but he could not reclaim his birthright. Bran would die and it would kill Will for all Time. “It’s better if we don’t.”

“Again, with the ‘You’re not the Pendragon’ stuff? I thought we’d been through that.”

“I know you think that you’re,” Will began but was stopped by Bran gently squeezing his hand. When had he started holding it?

“I don’t think.” Bran said, taking on the demeanor of an arrogant prince. “I know.”

“Oh, really?” Will asked disbelief and hurt turning his voice sarcastic.

Bran smiled knowingly. Then he made a familiar gesture, as if he were unsheathing Erias and a sword was in his hand. This blade was finer than even Erias had been. It must have been made by High Magic because even with his knowledge as an Old One, Will could not place a name to the blade. 

In shock Will started to ask Bran exactly how he’d reclaimed his titles, but couldn’t because Bran’s lips were in the way. Gently, slowly Bran brushed his lips against Will’s. Just as Will gathered enough sense to deepen the kiss Bran pulled away. He was grinning at Will with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Bran. How? Where did you get it?” Will asked, shock and curiosity overriding his need to continue kissing Bran.

Bran shifted his weight, returning the sword to sheath at his hip. “Ah, you know I dreamt I found it, then I woke up and there it was, along with all my memories.”

Will stared at him incredulously and Bran laughed quietly. “I thought you knew, or at least suspected. You are supposed to be all-knowing when it comes to magic, right?”

Will shook his head, “I didn’t know. How could I?” He was silent for a moment, trying to figure out why the High Magic would reclaim Bran. Surely it meant that there was still work left for Bran, maybe even for both the Pendragon and his Old One.

Finally, Will smiled at Bran. Truly smiled, letting joy sweep through him. He tugged at the hand that was still holding his, making Bran close the space between them, and kissed him. At first the kiss was understated, hesitant. Then, as both Bran and Will became confident that this was right, it gained certainty. Will’s free hand threaded through Bran’s hair. Bran’s hands latched on to Will’s waist bring them even closer together. The tentative brushing of lips metamorphosed into the steadier warring of tongues as soft moans shattered the silence. When they finally broke the kiss both were breathing a little heavier.

“I missed you, you know. I didn’t like not, really, talking to you.” Will said allowing his hands to fall from the back of Bran's head, caressing the defined contours of his arms, and stopping to hold his hands. Then it occurred to him that he hadn’t been the only one not talking.

“You could have told me.” He said suddenly, sending Bran a significant look.

Bran snorted, “I wanted to. Really I did, but I was afraid.”

Will frowned and Bran rolled his eyes. “Don’t frown at me like that. Your face will freeze that way you know.” After teasing Will till his ears were red he grew serious again. “I couldn’t tell you because I thought you might stand by what Merriman said about never being Pendragon again. And I didn’t want to forget again.”

“I wouldn’t.” Will said zealously. “It’s clear you’re meant to be the Pendragon, besides I think I’d stick to what he said about loving bonds instead.”

“Good to know.” Bran said grinning foolishly, “Because you’re stuck with me, probably forever.”

Will beamed. He was about to retort that he thought that might me okay but was interrupted by his prince demanding that he kiss him again. He couldn’t help but comply.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after some long deep conversations with various friends about their troubles. They got me thinking and I wrote a recipient-less letter to straighten my thoughts out. Then one night I started thinking about how the letter could've been written by Bran for Will, (though that letter never ended up being included). Anyways, this is the result. I hope you liked it! Thanks for reading!


End file.
